


The Masterpiece

by Copgirl1964



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas Miracles, First Kiss, Growing Up, Happy Ending, Hurt Greg Lestrade, Kid Greg Lestrade, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Mystrade Advent Calendar 2018, Pre mystrade - Freeform, eventually mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-14 21:21:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16920606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Copgirl1964/pseuds/Copgirl1964
Summary: Mycroft is six years old when he receives a Christmas present whose origin can't be explained. It's a nutcracker, and Mycroft is immediatel drawn to the wooden figur. Is it just a plain and simple nutcracker or is there more to it than anybody realises?





	1. Christmas Miracle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Antheas_Blackberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antheas_Blackberry/gifts), [Elaine27](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elaine27/gifts), [lmirandas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmirandas/gifts).



> My thanks go once again to @Bryntwedge who is always quick to beta. Thank you, bro! You're fantastic!
> 
> I give the story to three of my Madness in November friends, who ended up without a story from their birthday buddies. 
> 
> I think the story will have about 8 chapters and should be finished on Christmas Day. There is going to be once again amazing artwork by @Camillo1978 which will be published on Twitter and Tumblr as soon as it's accompanying chapter is published here.
> 
> Tags will be added as the story progesses.

At the age of four, Mycroft Holmes understood that Father Christmas was a myth, made up by adults for reasons he couldn’t fathom. He waited another year until he told his parents that he knew that the sherry and the mince pies he left out for Father Christmas were not consumed by the fictional man but them, which left them somewhat flustered.

Each year his father put up the Christmas tree on the 18th December and one week later, Mycroft would find one present for him underneath it. Mycroft desired little as his parents were very generous with anything money could buy. So finding only one present was very much alright for him. The only thing he kept wishing for was a brother for company. 

At the age of six, little Mycroft was very much looking forward to Christmas day because he knew he’d get the reflector telescope he’d asked for. It came with an adjustable, full height steel tripod, two eyepieces, a finder-scope as well as a motor drive. He already saw himself gazing at all the stars and nebulas he couldn’t detect with the naked eye. Secretly he hoped that his mother or father would perhaps join him in this endeavour, as no baby-brother was in sight yet. 

Being used to getting one present, Mycroft was extremely surprised when he found not one but two packages under the Christmas tree that bore his name. His parents seemed to be equally bewildered about the second parcel and kept muttering among themselves. Uncle Rudy was his parent’s prime suspect but Mycroft knew in his heart that his scary uncle would never be capable to procure a package that was so beautiful. Not to mention that Mycroft’s name was not written in his uncle’s handwriting.

The unaccountable present was wrapped in shiny blue paper with little white dots that looked like snowflakes. From the corner of his eye it seemed to Mycroft as if it was real snow that drifted around lazily on the paper.

While his parents were still arguing what to do with the present, Mycroft decided he might as well open it. Careful not to damage the wondrous paper, he untied the ribbon and when the paper fell open, Mycroft found a plain cardboard box. He opened the box and inside, hidden under wood shavings, he discovered a nutcracker.

With utmost care, Mycroft lifted the nutcracker from his box and studied it curiously. Beautifully hand-painted, the wooden figure felt smooth and warm to his touch. Mycroft immediately loved the warm colours of the nutcracker’s uniform, and he was mesmerized by the meticulously carved face. With its masculine jaw, the nutcracker’s expression could have been called hard had it not been for the soft brown eyes that seemed to look right back at Mycroft. 

He was so very much enraptured in examining the nutcracker, that Mycroft only noticed his parents had stopped arguing when his father cleared his throat. 

“Mind if I had a look?” He held out his hand. When his son showed no inclination that he was willing to hand over the nutcracker, he added, “I promise to give it back.” With great reluctance, Mycroft gave it to him. 

“Why don’t you open your other present?” his mother asked.

“I know what’s inside, mummy,” Mycroft replied. “I’d rather open it later.”

Once they were certain, that the nutcracker didn’t pose a threat, they returned it to their son. And with his new friend securely tucked under his arm, Mycroft went to open his other present.

* * *

Over the course of the following days, Mycroft’s parents watched with astonishment that Mycroft brought the nutcracker along wherever he went. During their meals, the nutcracker watched the family from a nearby cupboard, while at night, he stood guard on Mycroft’s bedside table. They even caught their son once reading the nutcracker a story. They considered it a relief that Mycroft didn’t seem to be so different than other children after all.

By the 12th day of Christmas, on the 6th January, Mycroft’s father took down all the decoration to place everything into a large wooden box which would be put in the attic until next December. Knowing the nutcracker counted as ‘Christmas decoration’, Mycroft returned him gently to the box with the wooden shavings, while his father carried the tree outside. When his father returned, Mycroft handed him the box with a heavy heart and quickly went to his room. There was no need for his father to see the tears in his eyes.


	2. Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is looking foward to both the upcoming Christmas time as well as the arrival of a new family member.

When his mother was rushed to the hospital one week before Christmas, Mycroft was torn between joy and despair. The reason for him to rejoice was the prospect of his baby-brother, still inside his mother’s belly but hopefully to be born soon. Unfortunately, Mycroft’s father had followed his wife to the hospital, although Mycroft was certain that his mother was perfectly capable of giving birth without his presence. In Mycroft’s opinion it would have made much more sense if his father had carried the box with the Christmas decoration down from the attic, to have everything ready when Mummy and the baby returned. Not to mention that Mycroft could have freed the nutcracker from the box, where it’d spent the past eleven months. 

His parents returned two hours later. What they’d thought were the first signs of labour had turned out to be cramps because of flatulence. 

Mycroft was told he’d need to wait another two or three weeks for the arrival of his baby-brother, but since he had his nutcracker again for company, he didn’t mind waiting quite as much. 

* * *

The baby was born on the 6th January, the day the nutcracker and all other decoration had been stored up the attic once again. The first time Mycroft saw Sherlock, he wondered if it hadn’t been better if his mother had waited another month or two before giving birth. His poor baby looked positively shrivelled, sounded weird and smelled funny. 

Six weeks later Mycroft was convinced that time had proven him right, since Sherlock’s looks had significantly improved. With his enormous blue eyes and mop of dark hair he made everyone coo over him. By the time Easter came round, Sherlock was already most precious to his big brother, who only stopped nagging his mother until she taught him how to pick up, hold and carry the baby properly. Without noticing, Mycroft quickly found himself securely twisted round Sherlock’s little finger.


	3. Protective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's common that Mycroft protects his baby brother but this holds true as well for Sherlock.

Despite their age difference, the Holmes brothers often stood by each other.

It was in the year Mycroft turned twelve, when a plumber came to Musgrave where the Holmes lived at that time to fix a dripping tap. The plumber brought an apprentice with him; a lad of nineteen with startling green eyes and hair so light it looked almost white.

Mycroft knew by then that we was gay. He’d accepted it like the fact that he possessed two arms and two legs, and took no further note of it. It was upon seeing the blonde apprentice though, that Mycroft felt the first stirring of physical desire. Sitting on the stairs to the first floor, he could watch the plumber and his apprentice work without being seen. At least he thought he wasn’t.

Two weeks later, the service of the plumber was required again. This time the toilet had fallen victim to an experiment Sherlock had conducted. Apparently he’d used his father’s engraved pencil case, including his exorbitantly expensive fountain pen, as substitute for a submarine and sent it down the drain.

It was as close as Mycroft would ever see his usually gentle father turn violent, and it left him utterly terrified. Although shivering in his shoes, Mycroft stepped in front of his shouting father to protect his baby brother who was in tears. Sherlock didn't explain the experiment but Mycroft quickly found out that Sherlock had done it for his older sibling's benefit because a clogged toilet would mean another visit not only by the plumber but also by the subject Mycroft desired.

When the plumber and the apprentice (by now Mycroft knew his name was Tim) showed up, Mycroft tried to stay again nearby and observe quietly. This time, however, Tim caught him staring. The apprentice waited until his instructor was busy talking to Mr Holmes before he turned to Mycroft and hissed, “what are you gawking at, lump?” 

Mycroft’s face flushed bright red with embarrassment and dismay. He fled to his room, but not before he saw Sherlock stepping up to Tim who towered over the small boy. Sherlock was shaking with fury and delivered a vicious kick to the apprentice’s shin with all the strength of an annoyed four-year-old. “You shall never work in this house again,” Sherlock screamed at the shocked apprentice, and ran after Mycroft.


	4. Letting Go - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the age of twelve, Mycroft no longer needs to play with the figure of a nutcracker, doesn't he? At least Mummy Holmes thinks so. 
> 
> The beginning of this chapter is "accompanied" with an amazing piece of artwork, made by @Camillo1978   
> You can find it on Twitter (https://twitter.com/Mycopoftea/status/1073563827881566210) and on Tumblr .

Sherlock came racing into the house, rosy cheeks aglow from playing outside. He was still wearing the pirate’s hat his big brother had given him for his birthday. When Sherlock found Mycroft, he was sitting at his desk, but instead of studying for school in a tome about Roman Britain, he seemed to be in silent conversation with a nutcracker. Sherlock had seen the wooden figure before but had been unaware how fond his brother was of it. His gaze was almost loving. On closer inspection, it appeared as if the nutcracker actually looked back at Mycroft.

Spotting the wooden sabre on the nutcracker's side, Sherlock's eyes widened. "Is it supposed to be a pirate?" he asked in a breathless voice.

Startled by Sherlock's voice, Mycroft jerked. "No, Sherlock. I don't think he's supposed to be a pirate. He looks more like a soldier, doesn't he?"

"He?"

"Well..." Mycroft swallowed. To him, the figure had always been a man rather than an object but he didn't know how to explain. "The nutcracker looks like a man, doesn't he?" Mycroft tried.

Sherlock tilted his head. "I suppose so."

For a long moment both brothers studied the nutcracker. They were interrupted in their contemplation by their mother stepping into the room.

"Ah, there you are. Have you finished the presentation about Rome, Myc?"

"Almost, Mummy," replied Mycroft. "I named it ‘The History of Rome; From its Origin to Contemporary Times’."

Their mother nodded approvingly. "That’s a good title. Still, perhaps instead of playing, you could finish the presentation? You do know that Uncle Rudy would like to see it when he comes to dinner tomorrow."

"I wasn't playing," Mycroft started to reply, but his mother silenced him with a gesture.

"I think you're much too old to play with a doll anyway, dear. Why don't you give it to your brother?" Ignoring Mycroft's shocked expression, she addressed Sherlock. "I'm certain the old nutcracker would make a wonderful prisoner when you and Victor go on your next sea raid." She ruffled her younger son's locks affectionately, and Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Oh, and lunch is ready in ten minutes. Go wash your hands, boys, and come down to help setting the table."

"Yes, Mummy," her sons echoed while she returned to the kitchen.

"We could negotiate an exchange of prisoners and try keelhauling him," Sherlock babbled, still excited that he was going to have the nutcracker and completely failed to recognise his brother’s dismay.

"I don't think keelhauling is a good idea," Mycroft suggested carefully, trying to keep his voice calm. 

This couldn't be happening. The nutcracker was one of his few possessions he truly cared about, and he had to give it away to Sherlock, who might accidentally destroy it.

"But Mummy said I could have him," Sherlock said with a pout. 

He tied to grab the figure the same moment Mycroft reached for it, and with both boys trying to snatch it from the other's grasp, the nutcracker toppled over and fell from the desk with a loud thud.

Many miles from them, a boy fell down and broke his arm.


	5. Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's what happened to the boy who fell and broke his arm when the Holmes brothers were trying to grab the nutcracker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank @Bryntwedge again for doing a fabulous job beta-ing, although he keeps a busy schedule himself. Hugs, bro!!!

Susan Lestrade arrived at the hospital less than twenty minutes after she’d received the call, that her eldest son, Greg, had been admitted after he’d taken a tumble at the ice skating rink. Greg’s best friend Terry, who was pacing at the entrance, looked pale when she arrived.

“What happened, Terry?” she asked, while walking inside so fast that the 16-year-old had to hurry to keep up with her.

“Greg must have tripped but I didn’t see what caused it, even though he was skating right next to me. He just fell and I think he hit his head on the ice because he was out cold for almost a minute.”

“Were you goofing around?” 

“No, we didn’t. I swear.” 

Terry looked stricken. Susan, knowing that Terry was one of her son’s responsible friends, nodded.

“Alright, let’s see how he’s doing? You aren’t injured yourself, are you?”

Terry shook his head. “No, only Greg fell.”

“Very well then.” Greg’s mother straightened her back and knocked on the door of the surgery.

 

Half an hour later they knew that Greg suffered from a mild concussion and a broken arm. Terry, who had been picked up by his father, was on his way home. Susan Lestrade sat next to Greg’s hospital bed.

“You hit your head petty hard, love,” Susan said. She was stroking her son’s hair gently, trying to avoid a lump the size of a chicken’s egg at his temple. 

“I don’t know how it happened, Mum. I was skating next to Terry when I lost my footing. There was nobody next to us but...”

“But what, darling?” 

“It almost felt as if I’d been pushed.” 

Greg looked at his mother unhappily. “How long do I have to stay here?” 

“The doctor said that you have a mild concussion. They want to keep you for a couple of nights, and also run some tests to make sure it wasn’t some sort of seizure. I’m quite certain it wasn’t,” she added quickly, when Greg looked at her with alarm.   
“But it’s totally boring here,” Greg complained. “I don’t even have a book to read.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to read anything right now.” 

Greg pouted a little but then he yawned and closed his eyes for a moment. “I’m tired.”

“Guess I better go and let you sleep. Is there anything you want me to bring for you, when I come back tomorrow?”

Greg hesitated for a moment. There was something, the only thing he actually wanted, but his mother didn’t know about it.

“Darling, what is it?” she inquired, when she saw Greg biting his lip.

“Mum, at home, under my bed, I have this box with my old football stuff. Inside it,” he looked a bit sheepish, “inside the box there’s my old draw-string pack. It’d be great if you brought it.”

His mother’s eyebrows headed for her hairline. “You want me to bring a draw-string pack?” she asked incredulously. 

“Well...” Greg wanted to scratch his head but winced when his fingers accidentally came in contact with the bruise on his temple. “There’s something inside it that I never showed you. Don’t worry, it’s nothing dangerous. But it’s breakable. If you bring it to me tomorrow, I promise to explain everything.”

Susan Lestrade nodded. She trusted her son. “Alright,” she agreed, and stood up. That he didn’t protest when she gently kissed his forehead made it clear that her 15-year-old was indeed in a bit of a state.

* * *

“What on earth is that?”

It was late morning the following day and Susan Lestrade had returned to the hospital. As promised, she’d brought Greg’s old draw-string pack. She was curious, but had resisted to look at what was inside.

Greg held a snow globe with a diameter of about seven inches in the palm of his right hand. “I found it under the Christmas tree six years ago,” he told her. “Don’t know who gave it to me. It’s very pretty, isn’t it?”

Six years ago. Susan Lestrade remembered that particular Christmas quite well. It had been the first Christmas with their new family.   
Greg’s father, Robert Lestrade, had died in an accident when Greg was five years old, and his younger twin brothers, Stanley and Dexter, only three. After several years of mourning, she’d met Jeffrey Cox, a widower with two daughters. The Christmas Greg referred to, had been the first they all had celebrated together. 

Susan studied the snow globe. It really was pretty. In fact, it was exquisite; certainly not one of those snow globes one could buy for a few pounds at the next Christmas market. Jeff would have told her about it, and neither Stanley and Dexter nor Aisha and Layla would have the money or even thought about giving a snow globe to her eldest.

“A Christmas miracle,” Susan suggested because she honestly didn’t know what else to say. “Mind if I have a closer look?” she asked, and held out her hand.

To her surprise, Greg’s look turned guarded. “I promise to be careful,” she said, and, still with obvious reluctance, Greg handed her the snow globe. 

The scene inside the globe was a simple one. It showed two boys who were building a snowman, but even without her reading glasses she could see that the boys were crafted in great detail. 

“It looks as if they are wearing suit trousers and Oxfords with their anoraks,” Susan said with a laugh, ignoring that her son watched her like a hawk. “And the snowman wears what looks like a trilby.”

“So?” Greg asked, and Susan quickly hid her grin and returned the snow globe. 

Much, much later, long after his mother had returned home, and the only sound that could be heard was the soft snoring of the man in the second bed, Greg studied the scene inside the snow globe. Because of the cast, he was wrestling his torch and a magnifying glass single-handedly.  
Greg never knew why the snow globe had been so very special for him from the moment he’d laid eyes on it. Even now, six years later, he had no words to explain his fascination. That the snow globe wasn’t an ordinary one, was the only thing he knew with absolute certainty. Not the least, because initially there had been only one boy next to the snowman, and each Christmas the boys appeared to be older than the previous one, as if they were growing up.


	6. Letting Go - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has to give the nutcracker to his brother but that's easier said than done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all very, very much for all the lovely comments I received so far. They mean a lot to me.

An hour after dinner, Sherlock walked slowly into Mycroft’s room.

“Are you angry with me?” he asked. His voice was small, and Mycroft could see that Sherlock was afraid that his answer would be an affirmative. 

“No, I’m not angry, brother mine,” Mycroft replied. He pushed the second chair next to the desk with his foot in position for Sherlock to sit. 

The nutcracker stood on the table and Sherlock could see the spots at the nutcracker’s head and left arm, where he’d hit the floor. 

“Mummy told me to give you the nutcracker,” Mycroft said. 

Sherlock tilted his head, and studied his brother’s expression. “But you don’t want to.” 

Mycroft shrugged. His mother had made it very clear that she expected him to comply. “It would help if I knew that you’d refrain from keelhauling or beheading him,” he said carefully. 

Sherlock answered with such an enthusiastic nod of the head that his curls bounced, and Mycroft accepted that while the nutcracker was no longer in his possession, at least be moderately safe from his brother’s mischief.

* * *

“I’m very disappointed in you, Mycroft!” 

The addressed gave a startled cry and sat bolt upright in his bed. 

“Your behaviour is absolutely ludicrous!”

Rubbing his eyes, Mycroft, who had been fast asleep mere seconds prior, struggled to follow his mother’s line of thought. With no guilty feeling though, he couldn't begin to fathom what had made her scold him.

“Mummy, I don’t know what you mean.” 

Instead of replying, she only pointed at the bedside table, where Mycroft, to his utmost surprise, discovered the nutcracker. The figure stood in the exact position where it had stood all the other  
mornings.

“I took him to Sherlock's room last night, Mummy. Sherlock must have brought him back during the night.”

His mother’s grip on Mycroft’s upper arm was so firm, that he cried out in pain.

“Don’t you dare lie to me. Return this wretched nutcracker at once.” She let go of her son’s arm and turned to leave. “One more thing. There’s no need for you to show up for lunch today.” 

With that, she stormed out of the door, slamming the door behind her with so much force that it shook in its frame.  
Mycroft took the nutcracker and placed him on his lap. Sadly, he looked at the wooden features and gentle brown eyes. He’d been accused of taking the nutcracker from his brother and banned from Christmas lunch. Cradling the nutcracker against his chest, he began to cry.

Minutes passed before he felt composed enough to get out of bed. Wiping away the tears with a defiant gesture, Mycroft took a clean handkerchief to removed any stains his tears might had left on the nutcracker, noticing almost absent-mindedly that the traces of the nutcracker’s fall from the day before were no longer visible. 

He returned the figure quietly to Sherlock’s bedside table. His brother was still asleep, and Mycroft didn’t have the heart waking him to ask if he’d brought the nutcracker to his room during the night.

* * *

Mycroft was allowed to have lunch with his family after all. Sherlock had been aghast when he learned that he should sit at the table without his brother, and their father had convinced his wife that it was a rather harsh punishment for a minor offence. An offence, Mycroft knew, he hadn’t even committed. 

The whole affair was an odd one. Sherlock swore that he hadn’t returned the nutcracker, and in his heart Mycroft knew it was true.

In the evening, Mycroft retired early. The accusations of his mother still hurt, and although she was her normal, somewhat distant but not unloving self, he felt exhausted. Instead of eating dinner, Mycroft drank a mug of warm milk and honey. 

On the way from the kitchen to his room, Mycroft peeked inside Sherlock’s room. The only light came from the fairy lights on the Christmas tree in their garden. The nutcracker’s silhouette was clearly seen though. With a sigh, Mycroft closed the door again and went to bed.

The house was quiet when Mycroft woke up in the middle of the night. He desperately needed to go to the bathroom. Switching on the lamp on his bedside table, Mycroft yelped in surprise. There, in the soft yellow light of the lamp, stood the nutcracker. 

Happiness began to spread like wildfire through his chest but the joyous feeling was short-lived. Mycroft knew that he couldn’t keep the nutcracker, despite whatever miracle had returned the figure to him.

“You have to watch over my little brother now,” Mycroft said softly, tracing the beloved wooden face with the tip of a finger. “If you keep returning to me, I’ll get in trouble.” 

Mycroft crept into his brother’s room and returned the nutcracker, and if he was somewhat disappointed that in the morning the figure still stood in Sherlock’s room, he knew it was for the best.

* * *

Mycroft was exhausted when he came home for Christmas the following year. He enjoyed studying; however, being the smartest but also the youngest student in Oxford made his life very hard. A thirteen-year-old simply didn’t fit in at any university.

Therefore, he was happy to return to his family; especially to his brother. Mycroft was particularly excited since he’d managed to obtain what he knew would be the perfect Christmas present for his brother. Not the least because his mother would have a fit when he saw it. 

The reactions to the present indeed exceeded all expectations. First there was Sherlock’s delighted shout when he discovered a skull inside the bright coloured box. With glee, Mycroft listened to his mother’s shouting, who, as he had deduced, flew off the handle when Sherlock showed her the skull and declared that its name was Billy. 

Later, Mycroft was lying in bed reading when the door to his room opened and Sherlock peeped in.

“I thought you were asleep by now,” Mycroft said, automatically moving over to make room for his brother, who climbed onto his bed without hesitation. 

“This is for you.” Sherlock placed a paper bag, that was decorated with the face of an odd-looking green creature, on his chest. 

Mycroft didn’t need to be a genius to deduce from the bag’s weight and shape what was inside. He swallowed.

“Thank you, Lockie. This make me very happy.”

He reached over to place the nutcracker on his bedside table, where it now stood with an air of contentment. 

“There’s not enough room for both him and Billy,” Sherlock mumbled before he lay next to his brother, who then began reading to him from his book.


	7. Connecting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft finally meet.

Greg had just left the book-store, where he’d finished some last minute Christmas shopping, when he heard the shout. 

“Thief! Thief! He stole a wallet.” 

The boy who had shouted the accusation, stood between a couple, probably his parents, and pointed in the direction of a youth of about sixteen. The teen legged it, but he was heading diagonally to Greg, who immediately began his pursuit, cursing the books in his backpack he’d just purchased. The thief noticed too late that he was being intercepted, but when Greg grabbed him, they both fell. During the fall, the youth managed to wiggle out of his jacket, jump up and escape.   
But Greg had the jacket and most likely the stolen wallet. 

“Are you alright?” The boy’s father held out his hand and helped Greg to get up.

Greg took the proffered hand and got up. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.”

The boy, a thin tot of about ten, tried to grab the jacket, but Greg pulled it out of his reach. 

“Don’t want your fingerprints on anything inside this jacket,” Greg said. “And it’s possible that the thief was a drug addict. You really don’t want to hurt yourself on a used syringe.”

The boy cocked his head and studied Greg. “How is it, that you are a police officer but too slow to catch the thief?”

“Sherlock!” both parents shouted in unison, but Greg held up a hand, laughing.

“What a clever lad you are. I’m a Constable. Finished my training only some weeks ago. My excuse are the books in my backpack. Usually I’m pretty fast. Play football with my mates every week.”

Both Sherlock and his parent stared at Greg in astonishment. Usually Sherlock’s insults weren’t met with patience and kindness. 

While talking, Greg had dug a couple of disposable gloves from a pocket in his backpack. Carefully, he started checking the jacket, and found the stolen wallet.

“You’re quite observant aren’t you?” he asked Sherlock. “Good thing you spotted the theft.”

Being praised, the boy seemed to grow several inches.

“Just to make certain it’s indeed your wallet, what’s your name please?” Greg asked, when he found nothing with a photo on it but two credit cards and money inside the wallet.

“Violet Holmes.”

Greg handed the wallet over. He was slightly disappointed to find nothing in the jacket to identify the thief.   
“At least no-one got hurt, and we’ll catch him eventually, I’m sure.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “He lives near a tennis court.”

Both Greg and his parents stared at Sherlock. “Do you know that man?” Greg asked.

“No, but there were traces on both his shoes and trousers that looked like sand used on tennis courts.”

“I was right. You are clever. There is an address where several rather notorious chaps hang about, which has a tennis court in the neighbourhood. Thank you, Sherlock.”

“If you met his brother, he’d probably have been able to give you the size of the thief’s shoes and what he ate for breakfast,” Mr Holmes added. 

Greg was about to reply to that, when Sherlock spoke up again. 

“You’re him. You are the nutcracker.”

Greg looked at the boy in surprise. “Yes, I am. No-one ever recognises me; my role is so minor.”

Both of Sherlock’s parents shook their head in confusion, but before Sherlock could elaborate, Greg spoke. “I play the Nutcracker in the ballet.” He dug a flyer from his backpack and handed it over. “Although we use the studio theatre at the playhouse, it’s an amateur performance, and all the money goes to charity. One of my sisters plays the Sugar Plum Fairy, and I got roped into it.”

“You can’t even dance,” Sherlock scoffed.

“True. That’s why I play the Nutcracker and not the Prince, mister smart alec.” Greg booped Sherlock’s nose, who quickly scuttled backwards and hid behind his mother. 

“I hate to interrupt,” Sherlock’s father said, “but we need to keep going.” He pointedly looked at his watch.

“Well, goodbye then. And if you have time, do come and watch the ballet. It’s really good. Even though I’m in it.” Greg winked at Sherlock, who stuck his tongue out.

“We might actually do that,” Violet Holmes replied. “And thank you again.” She patted her handbag.

* * *

Mycroft was asleep at his desk, his head resting on his closed laptop, when Sherlock flounced into his room. Disappointed that he didn’t get acknowledged, Sherlock studied his brother for a moment. Approaching Mycroft on tiptoes, Sherlock moved a glass of water on the desk closer to his brother’s elbow and left the room again. Once outside he waited for a couple of seconds before he barged into the room, hollering “Mycroft!” from the top of this lungs. 

As expected, his brother jerked awake, his arm sent the glass flying from the desk, the water soaking some pages that were filled with Mycroft’s handwriting.

“Oopsie, didn’t mean to startle you.” Sherlock didn’t even make an effort to conceal his insincerity. 

Mycroft glared at his sibling, while dabbing at the water with tissues from a box of Kleenex on his desk. For a moment he considered telling Sherlock that he’d been too late, that his notes were already typed and secured, but Sherlock had such an air of being the bearer of important news, that Mycroft didn’t. 

“Do tell, Sherlock, what brought you here?”

“We’re going to see your nutcracker.”

Mycroft turned to look at the shelf, where the nutcracker had by now found a permanent home. At least until the following year. As soon as he turned eighteen, which was in a few months, Mycroft would get is own place. Aside from clothes, some books, his laptop and his desk, the nutcracker was the only personal item he intended to take. 

“Not that nutcracker. This one.” Sherlock threw the flyer they’d gotten from Greg on Mycroft’s desk.

“Is this one of Mummy’s ideas for having fun at Christmas?” 

“So much for being the smart one,” 

“I am the smart one!”

“Who doesn’t observe.” Sherlock stabbed at one of the small photos on the flyer. “Look at that, smart one.”

Mycroft bent over the flyer to peruse the indicated picture, then drew in his breath sharply. The picture wasn’t the best but the young man dressed as a nutcracker clearly wore a uniform in the same colours as his nutcracker, and the resemblance of his face was nothing but startling.

“When?” was all Mycroft could ask. 

“On the 27th. After this poor excuse of a police constable returned Mummy’s wallet, she insisted that we should go.”

Mycroft blinked for a few seconds. Then he shook his head and pulled out a chair for his brother.

“Don’t go anywhere!” he ordered, before he hurried into the kitchen to fetch tea for both of them and a handful of Gingernuts for Sherlock. He wanted the whole story and he wanted it now.

 

* * *

“It would have been easier to walk around us and make a video,” Mycroft told his father, after he took the bazillionth photo of his sons in front of the theatre.

The comment earned Mycroft a not too gentle thump to the shoulder from his mother.

“Be nice, Myc. We don’t exactly have too many photos of the two of you actually looking happy.”

Happy? That was questionable. Excited enough to almost shake would have been the more precise description of him. And as far as Sherlock’s happiness went, in Mycroft’s opinion, that smile was merely an indication that his brother expected that Mycroft would make a spectacle of himself later that evening. 

“It’s cold, and I’d really like to go inside,” Mycroft said, trying to prevent anybody from realizing that his trembling hands were caused by adrenaline and not the cold.

“Very well,” his mother said. “You go and find our seats. Your father and I will have a glass of champagne before the ballet starts.”

The brothers were more than happy to watch their parents head for the bar. When Mycroft turned for the auditorium, Sherlock held out his hand with a grin. Rolling his eyes, his elder brother dug out some money from his pocket, and Sherlock raced away to buy himself some sweets.

Only a few people had taken their seats, and Mycroft was glad that he had a moment to breathe. The day after Sherlock had given him the flyer, he’d rushed to the theatre to buy tickets for the whole family, making them his Christmas present. 

Unfortunately, there were no posters of the production, so he would have to wait until the Nutcracker’s actual appearance on stage to find out whether there was an actual resemblance or a figment of his imagination.

The half hour it took for the ballet to begin, felt closer to two hours for Mycroft, not to mention that he had to be patient for almost another thirty minutes before the Nutcracker appeared on stage. 

But all of a sudden he was there, first just standing motionless on the right side of the stage. Yet there could be no mistake. The man who played the Nutcracker looked like a living and breathing copy of the wooden figure at home. It wasn’t just the uniform, but the face and build also matched his nutcracker. Or was it vice versa? 

The Nutcracker was on stage mere five minutes before he disappeared behind the Christmas tree, where he was replaced by the dancer who played the Prince. In Mycroft’s opinion the five-minutes performance had been a stellar one though. 

Impatiently, Mycroft sat through another whole hour of the ballet, hoping, that the actor - according to the leaflet a ‘Greg Lestrade’ - stayed to the end.

When the cast came on stage one by one to accept their applause, Mycroft felt hard pressed not to jump from his chair to give the man a solo standing ovation, keenly aware of his brother, who paid close attention to his older brothers every reaction. 

Fortunately, when the curtain opened a second time and the whole cast was assembled on stage, all people in the auditorium jumped up; and if anyone but Sherlock noticed that Mycroft clapped a bit louder than strictly necessary, they didn’t comment. 

* * *

“That was a very lovely present, Myc. Thank you.” Kissing her son’s cheek proved that, for once, his mother indeed was happy. They had a reservation at a restaurant that was located in the same building as the theatre, and the brothers were sent to get the coats from the cloakroom. Mycroft wasn’t interested in the food. All he wanted to do was go to the stage door on the off-chance that he might see Greg Lestrade again. Luckily, he had an ally. 

As soon as they were out of sight, the brothers split up. Sherlock went to queue to get their coats and Mycroft hurried outside to find the stage door.   
While hashing out the plan, the brothers had overlooked the tiny detail that it was winter. Mycroft’s three-piece-suit really didn’t offer the layers that were required in the cold, especially if standing around waiting was on the agenda.

It was an accident that prevented Mycroft from catching pneumonia. Running to the side of the theatre, where the stage door was located, Mycroft noticed too late that the snow-covered ground was slippery. Very slippery. Therefore, with both arms flailing, Mycroft slammed into a person, who was just coming round a corner from the other direction, sending them both tumbling into a pile of snow. 

“And hello to you,” came the slightly muffled voice from Greg whom Mycroft had landed on. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I ran and slipped.” 

“Yes, you did.” Greg reached out and helped Mycroft to stand up. 

When they both caught their first proper look at each other, each drew in a sharp breath. Staring at one other, they were at a loss for words. 

Mycroft hadn’t planned for actually talking to Greg Lestrade. What should he say anyway? ‘Hello, I have a wooden nutcracker at home that looks like you. Wanna come over and see it?’

Greg was faced with a similar problem. The ginger-haired youth he just collided with, had the same features and stormy-grey eyes as one of the boys in the scene in his snow globe. 

“Gravitation is an odd thing.” Mycroft closed his mouth with a click. He could have kicked himself. What a stupid thing to say. The man who still held his hand didn’t seem to think that it was stupid though because he started to smile. 

“It really is,” Greg agreed. “I slipped at exactly the same spot earlier today. The force must be strong here.”   
“You didn’t see Star Wars?” he asked, when his counterpart just blinked.

“No. No, I didn’t.”

“That’s fine.” To Mycroft’s disappointment, Greg let go of his hand. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

“Because I don’t know Star Wars?” 

Greg laughed. “Of course not. I’ve got an invitation to a post-Christmas party.”

“Oh.” Although this already had been so much more than he’d expected from this evening, Mycroft couldn’t help being disappointed. “Thank you, for, erm, softening my fall.”

“It was my pleasure,” Greg grinned. Just before he walked away, he turned to Mycroft. “My name is Greg, by the way. Greg Lestrade.”

“And I’m Mycroft Holmes.”

“Good night, Mycroft Holmes!”

He watched Greg jogging through the snow towards the parking lot to climb into a car, before Mycroft turned and walked towards the restaurant. 

* * *

“Where have you been, Myc?” Violet Holmes asked, when her eldest finally approached the table, apparently deep in thought.

“We were considering reporting you missing,” his father added.

“To the bathroom, Mummy.” 

“I told you,” Sherlock chimed in, while he studied his brother’s face carefully, trying to deduce what had happened outside.

“My hat!” Siger Holmes exclaimed all of a sudden. “You’ve forgotten my hat at the cloakroom, Sherlock.”

“I’ll go and get it,” Mycroft offered. Before their parents could utter another word, he turned on his heel, quickly followed by Sherlock.

The brothers walked towards the theatre’s cloakroom, making on Sherlock’s insistence a stop at the coat rack at the restaurant’s door, to pick up their anoraks. 

“You didn’t really forget his hat, did you?” Mycroft asked, helping Sherlock to wrap his scarf more tightly around his neck. 

“Of course not.” Sherlock grinned. “I had a feeling it was necessary to get outside again. Found a safe place for the hat too.”

A couple of minutes later, they stood next to a snowman on the lawn in front of the theatre. The snowman that was sporting Siger Holmes’ hat. 

“You didn’t,” Mycroft burst out. 

They started to laugh and without exchanging another word, the brothers began to pick up rocks and sticks to finish the snowman, who was lacking arms and a mouth.

This is how Greg found them. He’d planned to leave with his friend Terry but even after he’d climbed into his friend’s car, he couldn’t stop thinking about the youth who’d run into him. Mycroft Holmes. Where had he heard that name? When his brain made the connection between the family with the curly-headed boy and the name Holmes, he grabbed Terry’s arm. 

“Let me out. I have to check something. It’s really important.” And before Terry even had the chance to protest, Greg hopped out of the car that had stopped at a red traffic light and ran back to the theatre. While he ran, it began to snow - but Greg didn’t slow down. He needed to talk to Mycroft; provided, that he was still there. 

At the lawn in front of the theatre, Greg came to a skidding halt. Certain that he was dreaming, Greg gazed at the scene that looked exactly like the scene inside his snow globe. And like in a dream he kept walking closer to finally stop where the brothers were working on a snowman that was wearing a trilby. 

Mycroft’s hand froze mid-air when he caught sight of Greg, standing there staring. Sherlock, the snowman and the whole theatre melted away from his perception. All that remained was the man with the chocolate-coloured eyes, who seemed to be just as entranced. 

A whole minute passed in complete silence. 

Sherlock kept looking curiously back and forth between his brother and the man called Lestrade, when the enraged shout came.  
“Sherlock Holmes, what on earth have you done with your father’s hat?” 

Seeing the ten-year-old bolt the moment the angry shout was heard, Greg stepped forward and grabbed Mycroft’s hand.   
“Perhaps it’s best if you don’t get caught at the scene of the crime.”

With their eyes aglow, the young men ran away from the angry shouts, all the while laughing.  
They hurried to hide behind the large Christmas tree that stood in the corner of the annexe building and the theatre. 

Once Mycroft had caught his breath, he decided to ask because he just had to know. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining, but why did you come back? You said that you had to attend a party.”

Greg swallowed and made a decision. “Okay, moment of truth.” He bit his lower lip. “This is going to sound really weird but it is the truth. At home, I have a snow globe and the scene inside is of two figures building a snowman. One of the figures looks like your brother Sherlock, the other one exactly like you.”

Mycroft nodded slowly while he processed the information. “When I was six years old, I got a nutcracker for Christmas, and he looks just like you did today in the ballet.” He left out the part that the wooden figure was, aside from his brother, his best, well, only friend. 

“You’re not making fun of me, are you? Because what I told you is true, Mycroft. I swear.”

“I’m not making fun of you, Gregory.” Mycroft liked how the name felt spoken out loud. “The nutcracker was under the Christmas tree that year but I don’t know who gave it to me.”

Greg’s eyes widened. “I don’t know either who gave me the snow globe,” he burst out. 

Both were at a loss for words after their confessions. Mycroft wondered if it was safe to leave, although leaving was the last thing he wanted to do that very moment.

While looking around, he did look up though, and froze. There, attached to the otherwise bare wall of the building, hung a mistletoe. He was terribly uncertain what to do, but he remembered that his father once had said that he shouldn’t look a gift-horse in the mouth.  
Mycroft’s cheeks, already rosy from cold and excitement, turned an even brighter shade of red. Gathering all his courage, he leaned forward and kissed Greg somewhat clumsily on the mouth. 

Greg had kissed both men and women before but when Mycroft’s lips touched his, the sense of belonging was almost overwhelming. Mycroft withdrew shyly after the quickest of kiss, but Greg stopped him. Looking into the bright intelligent eyes, Greg pulled Mycroft against his chest. 

“Let’s do this again,” he murmured. If anything, the second kiss felt even more intense than the first one.   
Although they’d only just met, kissing and holding each other didn’t feel like a beginning but rather like a logical conclusion; the finishing touch of something that was meant to be. 

They kept kissing, and the nutcracker on Mycroft’s shelf at home began to smile.


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twenty-five years have passed since the events in chapter 7. We're listening to a radio show.

**Twenty-five years later, on a radio show:**

 

“Hello and welcome back to _One-Hundred Years of Masterpiece Award_. This is Ryan Dear from Radio Christmas Times. In part four of our series, we’ll cover the winners of the prestigious award from twenty-five years ago until today. I managed to catch the elf of the hour from a quarter of a century ago during his lunch break in the park.”

 

“ **This is not my lunch break. I’m waiting for a customer?”**

 

“You…? I thought you were teaching these days.”

 

“ **That’s true but we suffer from skills shortage like so many other companies. I take over a job here and there, whenever I have time.”**

 

“That’s very fascinating. How many elves work for Father Christmas?”  


“ **Honestly, I have no idea. You have to ask someone from elven resources. I barely know the other regular eighty-eight members of the matchmaker division.”**

 

“A matchmaker division; how marvellous. That indicates that there’s more than just one division.”

 

“ **Oh yes. There are plenty. Just in the building where I work there’re three other divisions. They all work on making bespoke presents for our customers.”**

 

“What are the divisions in your building?”

 

“ **Well, aside from matchmaking there’s a department that makes presents to boost creativity, one to bring health and the one on the top floor is for making people happy. Believe me, I wouldn’t want to have their job. It’s the most difficult one, in my opinion.”**

 

“Right. Would you recall for our listeners what you did to achieve the award?”

 

“ **Certainly. I built a nutcracker and a snow globe, matched both items with two young boys, so when the time came, they’d recognise the other as their perfect match.”**

 

“What happened to the nutcracker and the snow globe, after they fulfilled their function?”

 

“ **Both items are still in the possession of the happy couple, who are by the way, married for twenty years now. The nutcracker and the snow globe you see in the shelves of our archive are copies.”**

 

“So, all elves do is make bespoke objects and give them to people? Since you are waiting for a customer could I be so bold to ask that you show me what you brought for this one?”

 

“ **No. In this particular case, giving them specifically designed presents wouldn’t work. These two require a more personal touch.”**

 

“And you’re waiting here to provide that personal touch?”

 

“ **Yes. The one I’m waiting for needs a firm push in the right direction, and I fear that even then it’s going to take quite some time until he’s ready to see that I found him the perfect match. And vice-versa.”**

 

“Is this why you took Human form?”

 

“ **Yes. Anyway, it’s almost time for him to show up. Provided you turn invisible and stay absolutely quiet, I’ll allow you to watch. But I must warn you. It’ll probably appear like a rather inconsequential conversation.”**

 

“Doesn’t matter. I’m truly fascinated...”

 

“ **So you’ve said.”**

 

“And I’m convinced, so are the listeners.”

 

“ **Now shush. Here he comes. John? John Watson? Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Barts together.”**

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, if I repeat myself. Once again, thank you for all the kind comments on this story. I really enjoyed writing it, and your comments meant more than I can ever express here.   
> Thank you also again @bryntwedge for beta-ing this story. I apologize for the mistakes I keep doing over and over again.


End file.
